


get in the fucking car, ryan

by ShitfishGhouligan



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate universe - Mafia, Businessman Ryan Bergara, Crack Treated Seriously, Friendship, Gen, Hitman Shane Madej, Humor, Mentions of Murder, Not Beta Read, Platonic Relationship, Present Tense, This is entirely based off the Hoffa thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 23:51:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15302793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitfishGhouligan/pseuds/ShitfishGhouligan
Summary: Ryan is ready to piss his pants at that moment, and he isn’t at all embarrassed to admit this point.“Don’t make me ask you again. Get in thefuckingcar.”





	get in the fucking car, ryan

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, never thought I’d write fiction based off live people but here you are.
> 
> All of this is pure nonsense with the sprinkling of accurate stuff mentioned on the show. Other than that, enjoy!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @ shitfishghouligan

This is a terrible idea.

Ryan knows that it is. Everything within him is screaming as much. After all, the circumstances are suspicious. The men that he works with aren’t necessarily the most honest in the business--tucking away dead bodies and making inconvenient characters “disappear” if the price is right.

If he is smart, then he should be halfway through the country rather than standing at this empty parking lot waiting for the men that had called him to appear and whisk him away to god knows where. But clearly, he is not. His better sense has fled him, leaving him to the mercies of his own instincts.

He knows he should go, pack his bags and make off to South America like any sensible man should. But Ryan Bergara is not a sensible man, not when it came to business or his curiosity.

_Even if it meant risking your life for the sake of getting your fix. But of course, that is just how things go, isn’t it?_

Ryan’s phone buzzes to life in his pocket, the loud shrill of it disrupting the silence that had overtaken the empty parking lot. He palms it, fishing it out to take a glimpse at just who was calling. He doesn’t recall anyone mentioning that they will be calling him that afternoon--he made sure to clear his schedule for this meeting with the mafia.

So when the caller ID flashes with a name he hasn’t seen in years, he’s stumped.

Helen, his ex-wife, is the one calling.

He answers before he thinks better of it, surprised that she would even call him at all after his disastrous arrest. His past is what ruined their marriage, so to see her calling him after so many years of silence, it was shocking to the senses. A punch in the stomach, more like, really.

“Helen.” He says, and there is silence on the other end of the line. He waits for her to speak, listens for her breaths and the familiar cadence of her voice that he has spent so many years without.

But there is nothing.

He strains to listen, waiting for the crackle of his receiver to part and reveal her voice, but still, there is no sound.

A nervous energy sweeps through Ryan, and that is when it becomes apparent that he’s afraid. His heart begins to beat in time with the nervous thrum of adrenaline now curling up his spine, and he’s certain now, his stomach twisting, that there’s something wrong.

“Helen?” He asks again, panicked now. Still, there is no response. It is only silence, only the white noise of the receiver hissing away at his ear.

And then--

“Hello, Ryan.”

That isn’t Helen. The voice at the other end of the receiver is someone else entirely. A someone that sounds vaguely familiar, but Ryan can’t quite place at that moment. All that he could tell is that it is a male with an obvious Italian accent.

A chill sweeps through him at the implications.

“Who are you and what have you done to Helen?” Ryan’s voice is higher than he intends, his panic obvious even to his own ears. But he can’t help himself. Something is up. He hasn’t seen his ex-wife in ages, the fact that there is someone there, now, where she is potentially in _danger--_

“Now now, Ryan. No need for the theatrics. Helen is perfectly safe for the time being.”

Amusement is thick in the man’s voice. It makes the hairs in Ryan’s arms stand on end, his heart beat a mile a minute now that this stranger has confirmed Ryan’s worst fear.

“What do you want?” Ryan’s voice chokes out, his grip on the receiver growing tight as he tries to stifle the panic twisting through his insides. He doesn’t know who this man is, cannot even begin to guess as to the identity except that he had to be a man working for the Italian mafia or some other unsavory criminal group.

Ryan is not proud of the things he had done, what he has had to come to in order to survive and make ends meet, but it is what it is. This is the price one paid when sacrificing oneself for the greater good, for building himself up from nothing and into a respectable businessman.

But damn it, why had they come for his ex-wife? She has nothing to do with his sordid past. It isn’t her fault that Ryan had turned to the mafia. He had made that decision all on his own, she had had nothing to do with it.

“Listen carefully, Ryan. A car will be arriving shortly with three men sitting inside. You are going to step inside, no questions asked and leave with them. Is that clear?”

Swallowing, Ryan tries to gather his bearings. It’s a trap. He is going to be killed in some unmarked location and there is nothing he can do about it. They have his ex-wife, so Ryan is certain that if he _does_ try to do anything, they wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet between her eyes and then following him to the ends of the earth to finish him off as well.

_Fuck, Helen. I’m so sorry for getting you caught up in this._

“Where will you be taking me?” Ryan replies, his voice thick with emotion. He is fucked. So fucked in fact that Ryan doesn’t even bat an eye when the man at the other end of the line laughs at him.

“You’ll be finding out rather shortly, Mr. Bergara.”

Another laugh rings out after that phrase, putting Ryan more on edge than he already is.

“Have a good evening, Mr. Bergara.”

With a voice full of mocking, the line finally goes dead.

Ryan stares unseeingly across the parking lot, the man’s words echoing in the back of his head repeatedly. It is a mantra that refuses to die, that he cannot stamp out no matter how much he wishes to.

They have his wife, and soon, they will have him too. Ryan doesn’t know the reason, but the _whys_ don’t matter. Not really.

So he waits. He waits until the sun begins to crawl from the horizon, the afternoon sun kissing the tops of the trees surrounding the small diner. He waits until his fingers begin to twitch, until his stomach refuses to cease flexing nervously, waiting for the roll of a vehicle stopping inside the parking lot.

He doesn’t know how long he waits, but once the sun finally sets, his feet aching from standing outside without a single break, the sound of a car engine breaks the silence. Its a low rumble, similar to the sound of a 1980s sports car that belonged in a car museum rather than out in the empty street.

He catches a streak of red, of polished varnish sliding through the shadows and the dim street lights above his head. He stares at it, watching it with a heavy weight upon his shoulders as the vehicle continues to roll, ambling through the pavement until it stops directly in front of him.

The windows are tinted so Ryan can’t see inside them, but he knows what to expect.

_Three men will be sitting inside._

The window on the drivers side of the vehicle rolls down, and Ryan clenches his fingers into fists, his phone hot in his hands as a face he has never seen before wearing dark shades appears from behind the glass. There is something grim about the way the man assesses him, his lips taut and straining as if he isn’t any happier to be there than Ryan is.

“Get in.” The man grunts, his voice thick with some foreign accent Ryan can’t place. It sounds like it’s a cross between Polish and some other European accent, but he can’t be sure. The absence of the Italian accent is not lost on him, and this particular point only serves to make him hesitate, to make him more fearful than he is already.

Ryan is ready to piss his pants at that moment, and he isn’t at all embarrassed to admit this point.

“Don’t make me ask you again. Get in the _fucking_ car.”

Ryan springs into action, grasping onto the metal handle of the car and pulling. It opens easily between his fingers, and Ryan _prays_ , he fucking _prays_ , that he makes it through this in spite of everything telling him that he will not.

After all, what is it that that Mulaney skit said about _secondary locations?_ His odds slim to none if they take him, and well. Ryan doesn’t have much of a choice than to drive off to his death--not while Helen is still in their grasp.

If they killed him, fine. He deserves that for even dealing with the Mafia in the first place, but Helen? She didn’t do anything wrong. Well, except _marry_ him. But that is besides the point.

He pushes himself inside and notices immediately that _yes_ , there are three men in the car. Two are sitting at the front two seats that he doesn’t recognize at all.

It’s only when he turns to the single man sitting in the back that he realizes just how fucked he is because that is a face he would recognize _anywhere._

Fear lodges itself in his throat.

Dark eyes stare back at him, the thick bags beneath them making his insides curl. The man’s hair is in complete disarray, as if he can’t be bothered to fix it.

It is the last person Ryan wants to see.

“Hello Ryan. Funny to see you here.”

Ryan doesn’t laugh. He can’t, not when it’s fucking _Shane Madej_ , the hitman he’d worked with once in the past.

“You alright there, little guy? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!” Ryan can tell that Shane is trying to make him feel better, to erase the fact that Ryan is literally being driven to his _slaughter_.

He appreciates it. He does, but in that moment, he can’t even bring himself to smile. Shane being there is never a good thing. The man is a killer. An unfeeling and hardened man with a reputation for killing in say--creative ways.

The fact that Ryan and he had hit it off when their relationship had been on better terms is irrelevant. They are on opposite sides now, the victim in this whole affair.

“No, I’m not.” Ryan forces himself to say when Shane leans in, a look flashing over his face. One might mistake it for concern, but Ryan knows better. Shane is incapable of concern--his color palette of emotion dedicated to two emotions, and two emotions only: apathy and irony.

“Now now, Ryan. Everything will be fine, just buckle yourself up.”

It isn’t a request, so Ryan complies without question. There is no need for him to make this more painful. If he is lucky, they will simply wack him with a clean shot to the back of the head wherever it is that they planned to take him. If he isn’t, well. He hopes that at least he doesn’t shit himself when he breathes his last breath.

Shane doesn’t speak again after that. Settling in the leather seat, he decides to watch Ryan.

Swallowing, Ryan focuses on the world outside when the vehicle begins to move, uncomfortable with the prickly sensation of Shane’s eyes on him. He doesn’t know what Shane is looking for or why he is looking at him that way, but either way, he chooses to ignore it.

It is, perhaps, the first time Ryan is ever completely silent.

“You’re oddly quiet today, Ryan.”

Taking a deep breath Ryan doesn’t know he is holding, Ryan turns to Shane. He doesn’t want to look at him, to see the same face of the man he had made morbid jokes with about _murder_.

The bit about tearing out the entrails of his enemies, thinking on it now, definitely doesn’t seem as funny now as it did then. Ryan is, as any _sane_ person should be, terrified. Because of course, if a man could easily joke about something that heinous, then that meant he is in some respects capable of that sort of cruelty.

“Yeah, well. Something about my _ex-wife_ being kidnapped and all would make a man a little lost for words.” Ryan says, flinching when Shane scootches closer to where he is sitting in the car, his hands death gripping his thighs.

“Your wife? _Kidnapped_ ? How _awful_.” Shane doesn’t sound at all sorry. In fact, he sounds almost amused. Ryan chooses not to say anything else, already uncomfortable with Shane’s attention as it is. “It’s a good thing you have us here, baby. We’ll bring back your wife all safe and sound.”

Shane’s arm slings over his shoulder, and Ryan tries not to flinch away, a nervous sound tumbling from his throat. It is a small, terrified squeak. One that, in another life and situation, he might even be embarrassed by, but this is not the time for that. Not when he is slowing rolling to his death with a fucking assassin invading his personal space.

“I would hope so, considering you all were the ones that _kidnapped_ her in the first place.” Ryan says, an agitated air settling over him when Shane cocks his head to one side in confusion.

“We did what now?” Shane replies, and it is in that moment that Ryan realizes that _of course_. The man on the phone had been Italian, but the men in this car, with the exception of Shane, have nothing to do with the Italian mafia.

“ _Are you fucking kidding me?_ ” Ryan groans, his hands pushing against his face. The mafia didn’t take his wife. They never did in the first place. It all makes sense now.

Helen had left him immediately after the news broke that he was dealing with the mafia, laundering money and silencing those that would ruin his business. Why would she keep the same number from _six_ years ago?

Ryan starts laughing, the sound echoing in the car endlessly. It chokes him, tears burning along the corners of his eyes because _yes, of course_.

“You guys never took her in the first place, did you?” A peal of laughter leaves him again, and Ryan watches how Shane shuffles closer, a pensive look on his sloth-like face. It makes him laugh harder, the sudden realization that Shane looks like some slow mammal enough to make his stomach ache.

It is stupid that he is laughing this hard when he is heading to his death, but whatever. A laugh is a laugh, and boy, does he fucking need one after the shit he’s been dealing with.

“Nope.” Shane says, the ‘p’ over-enunciated. For some morbid reason, this makes Ryan laugh even harder, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

_God, I’m a fucking idiot._

“Woah there, buddy. You alright?” Shane asks, and Ryan shakes his head, because of course he’s not fine. He’s about to die, his hired gun is sitting beside him, and his ex-wife--who he had thought had been _kidnapped_ \--is fine. Not that her being fine is a terrible thing, no, but he had hopped into a car with fucking murderers with zero resistance on her account. If he hadn’t been scared for her safety, hell, he would have ran from out of the diner the moment the Italian bastard had hung up.

“You guys played me.” Ryan wheezes, finally gathering his bearings. This isn’t even remotely funny, but there is something to be said about being left with zero options. All one could do is shrug one’s shoulders and sort of resign themselves to it, really. “You bunch of fucking assholes.”

In hindsight, cussing at his would-be killers is not a great idea either, but he’s beyond caring. This ship has long since sailed.

“Well, that’s what we do. We murder, we conspire, we buy off people, and, y’know, we _lie_ .” Shane shrugs, his arm still slung over Ryan’s shoulders. “But don’t worry your little head about it. It’s not like we’re going to _kill_ you or anything. You’ve been good to the business.”

“Huh?” Ryan swivels around, unsure if he has heard Shane right. They weren’t going to kill him? After all the shit they put him through?

“Yep. No murdering Ryan Steven Bergara. The boss’s orders.” Shane states matter-of-fact, his face turning away to nod at the two men at the front of the car. “You’re still useful for us. It would be a shame to snuff you out too soon.”

Ryan doesn't believe it. Can’t believe it.

“Are you fucking kidding me? I nearly shit myself.”

Shane laughs in response, his body pressing closer until Ryan is certain they are almost one unit. A fucking sandwich with mismatched bread paired together into some strange experiment. He doesn’t know what to make of this.

“Well, you just had this terrified look on your face. We couldn’t pass up the opportunity.” Shane says, and Ryan shoves him, heat curling over his cheeks in embarrassment. “Come on, what if you actually _had_ pissed yourself? It would have been hilarious.”

Ryan does not find it at all funny. His blood pressure is steadily rising, and knowing his track history, he is ready to fucking lose his shit. All this, all of this bullshit, is a fucking _prank_ ? By the fucking _mafia_ , of all people?

“You are fucking unbelievable.” Ryan mutters, unable to come to terms with the fact that the fucking mafia had gone out of its way to make him think he is about to be offed for some imagined slight.

“What did you expect, Ryan? I called the Mafia to move my ratty ass couch from my apartment. And they _came_. What makes you think we wouldn’t go this far to make you shit your pants?”

Ryan can’t even begin to imagine what his face looks like at that moment.

“You called the fucking _mafia_ to move your couch? Are you _insane?_ ”

Shane only shrugs, and Ryan can’t help himself, he starts laughing again, his throat aching. He almost chokes, a wheeze leaving him when one of the men at the front of the car turn to him and throws him an exasperated look.

“He’s not lying. We had to move that thing out of his apartment from a six-story building with no elevator.”

Ryan laughs harder, literal tears running down his cheeks when Shane shoots him a wink. This is unbelievable.

The most notorious killer, a man that can pick apart the bones of an elderly man without batting an eye, had called the mafia to _move his couch_.

“In my defense, look at me! You think I’m equipped to be moving couches down a flight of stairs?”

Ryan shakes his head, sputtering. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to recover, but when he does, he levels Shane with a disbelieving look he feels to the depths of his soul.

“ _Shane_ , that’s what fucking Craigslist is for.”

Shane only smiles a dorky smile, and shrugs.

“What can I say, I’ve got a bit of a flair for the dramatics.”  



End file.
